


Coffee or Tea?

by fluffyanon (Marfabu)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:25:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marfabu/pseuds/fluffyanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes milk, but no sugar, in his tea every morning. Sherlock would rather have coffee on this kind of morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee or Tea?

**Author's Note:**

> Anything I say about London is all made up because I'm actually very American. My word is not law for this type of thing.

John wakes up on a Sunday morning with bleary eyes and a weary head. It's a warm kind of morning (for London anyway), one where the blue sky stretches out in a lazy way for such an absurd time as ten in the morning. The warmth isn't only figurative for this January morning. John can figure this as the cheery morning radio host calls that it's a balmy nine degrees Celsius.

Army habits die hard. His alarm clock reads that it hasn't even passed eight in the morning and he's already awake. His breathing turns into a groan when he thinks of having to get up. Sleeping is how he avoids facing people, and as weak of an excuse as it is, it's the only one he has. John sighs and finds that his legs are moving out of the bed in an almost mechanical fashion. His feet are falling onto the floor and his hands are already running over his face; a useless attempt to bring the grog out of his features.

He has a new-found understanding for the people who wear makeup. He would wear a fair share of concealer if he thought the bags under his eyes could stand a chance of being any less prominent through its help.

As he makes his way to his closet, he's brought to the realization that all the clothes he owns are in boring shades. It's a grey canvas in his closet, with the occasional splashing of black to help liven things up. He breathes a sigh through his nose as he decides on his outfit, consisting of a boring grey shirt with khaki pants. But it doesn't stop there! It also includes plain white socks, and black dress shoes. This is the most colorful outfit that he could ever choose with this palate of colorful options.

John skips a shower this morning, not damned enough to care, and decides to skip ahead to his morning cuppa. He puts the kettle on and listens to its quiet hum and realizes that it's only depressing him further. It reminds him of the fact that he's more alone than he'd like to admit. It's a lonely melody that John finds himself starting to tap his foot to without a second thought before he can find the strength to stop.

As he's searching through the cupboards and pantry of his quiet flat, he's struck with the epiphany that he's run out of tea. This means that he has two choices. His first is that he would have to go to the supermarket and risk the chance of igniting another row with the chip and pin machine. Or he will have to go to a cafe and endure the sympathetic stares of the other patrons.

He pulls the now-screaming kettle off of the stove to silence it. He empties its contents into the sink with a sigh and takes a moment to run his hand along his face. John's trying to wake himself up and reason that it won't be so bad to go to a cafe. The fresh air will help wake him up, and he has the medical training to prove that sitting at home all day by his lonesome isn't a good idea. Cafe it is, then. He closes his eyes for a long moment to steel his nerves. He's not that great at being in crowded places, not when he feels that they can tell his entire life story through a single glance.

* * *

 

When John has arrives at the cafe, it's hasn't even passed nine in the morning. His palms are sweaty as they clamp around a styrofoam cup of Earl Grey, which he sips at in what he hopes is a casual way. He doesn't like to have the gaze of worried baristas focused on the way his hands are shaking. John swears he can already hear their three-inch heels clacking as they walk towards him. They always wear sympathetic gazes like a name tag and John can't stand that; their eyes narrowed and their lips pouting. He hears footsteps coming in his direction and looks up to find a man taking long strides before he sits down across from him.

The man is tall, towering above John's stature of 5'6 at what the shorter can only guess to be about 6'0. He has an intimidating blue-green gaze that rocks against John's every feature. It's as though John's a ship caught out at sea and this man's eyes are the waves dragging him down in the middle of a harsh storm. The shaggy hair atop his head is dark like the color of a midnight sky.

John clears his throat to grab tall, dark, and handsome's attention. He's caught under his stare and it makes him feel uneasy, to be quite honest. His heart is racing as he swallows back his fear and unease to see the mystery man fix him with a different type of gaze. This one is demeaning and makes John feel like he's in primary school and this man is the bully on the playground.

"There aren't any other seats." His voice is as deep as his glass-cutting cheekbones would seem to suggest.

John wants to argue that, yes, in fact there are other open seats in this cafe. There's an entire booth open on the other side of the room, and he would be happy to point him towards it. But would that be rude to do? He just doesn't want to be around anyone in this close of proximity, no matter how smoldering their gaze.

"Sherlock," the man speaks again in that low tenor that's both intrigued and disinterested. "Sherlock Holmes."

He extends a pasty hand that suggests that he doesn't spend much time outside. He seems a bit of introvert, anyway. Who else doesn't know that it's plain rude to just sit down across from someone in a cafe that has plenty of other open seats?

"John Watson," he extends his hand in kind and they shake.

"So," Sherlock begins after a lull of silence that leaves John fidgety under the stare that takes over. He pauses again, but whether for emphasis or his own nerves John can't tell. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John splutters for a moment in attempts to find words. How could this stranger of a man have ever known about his time in the military? "H-How..?" He turns his head and furrows his gaze.

"The tan that stops at your wrist," he's explaining in a bored tone that suggests that John should have known this. Is this what he missed out on while he was in the military? Some sort of seminar on how to deduce complete strangers? "It suggests that you've been in somewhere sunnier than London. And the way you hold yourself, it's the way a soldier would carry themselves. So, I'll ask again: Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He swallows his anxiety and feels it stick against the back of his throat. He pauses before answering, deciding if he wants to answer him. There's no law saying that he has to, but something about this man (Sherlock, was it?) tells him that he can trust him.

"Afghanistan." John's voice comes out much more quiet than he'd intended for it to.

Sherlock's lips twinge upwards and he lets out what can only be as close to a chuckle as he could get.

"Coffee or tea?"

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that this was okay! I actually spent a much longer time on this than I usually do. It took me a couple of weeks to write, from both my own procrastination and frustration with finding the right words. ^^' Let me know what you think! Kudos are always appreciated and comments are very much welcomed!


End file.
